My Parents' War
by Sovyetski17
Summary: It is 1944. Europa is little more than a pile of ashes. Our heroes are fighting in one of the bloodiest battles of the Second Great War: The Battle of Fontainebleau. Little do they know that this is only the first step, the first leg, of the journey of their (likely short) lives; a journey complete with romance, humor, and an expedition into the darkest depths of one's heart...
1. Divergence

_**Space - Around 7.3 Million B.C**_

An asteroid, no larger than a heavy-duty truck, aimlessly drifts towards the solar system.

Speckled throughout its surface are some...interesting...blue rocks.

Keep to yourself any questions you have for this lone wanderer; its time as a contiguous piece of cosmic debris is about to be cut short.

Look to the left, and you can see a comet of near equal, if slightly smaller size, barreling towards our asteroid.

Where did it come from?

Why is it here?

In mere seconds, these questions will be rendered moot...

* * *

**_Modern-Day London, Earth - Around six days later; roughly 10:32 P.M._**

On a grassy knoll in Southern Britannia, one can - just barely - spot a small collection of...bright blue...and bright gold...meteorites falling towards the surface.

...Things in this timeline look to be very...

...Very...

...Interesting...

* * *

**The beginning of my first ever fanfiction! (cue the depressingly lonely party blower)**

**Regardless, this is going to be an AU of Valkyria Chronicles that asks the question literally nobody asked: What would happen if Ragnite existed in drastically smaller amounts?**

**...And what if MAGIC existed in this universe as well?**

**Don't sugarcoat the reviews, please. If you like it, then leave a favorite. If you follow it, then I'll know that I have people who like this idea as much as me.**

**Do Svidanya.**


	2. Who Watches The Watchmen?

_Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? (Who watches the watchmen?)_

_\- Juvenal_

* * *

_**The outskirts of Fontainbleau; July 17th, 1944**_

The hamlet the Common Army managed to secure from Valois turned out to be an excellent foundation for a makeshift command post. A small, quaint settlement, made up, for the most part, of brick-and-mortar houses with oak roofs, nestled in a patch of forest that the industrial revolution didn't bother cutting down, located a good few dozen kilometers from Fontainebleau.

If any of the local inhabitants were still alive (which they aren't; indiscriminate bombardment with airburst munitions is, apparently, a _very _messy way to clear out an area of hostiles. Who would've thunk it?), they would've agreed that the most common way to enter the hamlet was from the South-East. Entering from that direction (assuming you weren't torn to shreds by the machine gun nests hidden in the bushes by the road), one would be immediately met with an intricate, in-depth style network of defenses, mostly consisting of barbed wire and trenches; the _real _challenge was the endless system of cunning booby traps (read: a bunch of repurposed bear traps hidden with foliage) planted along the road leading up to the hamlet.

Entering the compound, to your left lies a series of tents, fairly long (it would be wise to wager 9 or 10 meters) but a bit narrow, much akin to those peculiar houses you can find in Saigon; these were the barracks, able to house some 60 guards; the true strength of the unit lies elsewhere, in a camp a kilometer or so eastwards. To your right, you would find more barracks, this time occupying a row of houses and shops that, miraculously, managed to survive (at least with only a few chips) the bombardment that tore the local garrison (and population) to shreds. These buildings, all in all, housed an additional 37 guards. In case you can't do that math, that's a grand total of 97 elite mooks defending this small hamlet.

Past the barracks, you'll come across a second ring of defenses, noticeably lighter than the no-man's-land that came before it, but still a fairly difficult gauntlet to run grind through, consisting of a second line of trenches protected by three layers of barbed wire, with some gaps in the wire made to allow for the machine gun nests to fire through.

Past _all of that_, you'll finally come across the meat, the bread and butter of this outpost: The command center.

The building that was chosen to operate from was a rather large country manor. It was rather impressive in size, yes, but it was well past its prime, even before the war, with paint - of the light yellow variety - chipping off in multiple places, vines and foliage conquering others, and even some holes in the roof that were, no doubt, products of the war.

Situated in what used to be the upstairs study sits the war room, complete with radios, informational posters, and cork-boards lining the walls, to say nothing of the _massive _table in the middle of the room, which displayed a map of the city of Fontainebleau and the surrounding countryside.

Sitting in the war room for a while allows one to take in the sheer lack of activity taking place throughout the compound; the Second Great War has progressed to such a state that, sometimes, putting in a genuine, full effort into extensive planning was little more than a formality; the Union's go-to tactic nowadays whenever they came across minor opposition was simple: _Indiscriminately bomb the living __**shit **__out of it._ The best the infantry and armored forces could do in that case was just act as a glorified mop.

Up above, the ceiling fans slowly turned, regularly making known to the room's occupants their discomfort by whining and whimpering with every revolution they complete. It was painfully obvious that these poor machines were _well _past their ability to successfully dip the room's temperature to an acceptable level; which, of course, is why the decision was made to open up the tall windows: To allow cool air in, and push the hot air out.

Of course, it only took a few seconds to realize how _stupid _of a decision it was when they opened up the windows to allow the _absolutely __**searing **_July heat to make itself at home. Being raised in the frosty, dry, sometimes mildly warm climate of Eastern Europa naturally meant that the sweltering humidity of the West's summer months were near _unbearable_. And it showed; many soldiers opted to open up the top buttons of their tunics, while the artillery and tank crews had forgone their tops entirely, the women keeping their bras on only for the sake of modesty.

But the scenery isn't the focus of this story.

Nor is the atmosphere.

Indeed, the officer poring over the center map is the focus of our story (well, one of the main focuses, anyways).

Any attempt to ascertain his identity by sight was immediately thwarted by the simple fact that his head was dipped at such an angle that his cap, colored in the distinctive blue of the SS, covered his head. He wore the standard army top, the _gymnastyorka_, a rather simplistic (but ridiculously cheap) tunic that hails from Ruthenia. As with all other officers ranking above Senior Lieutenant, his _gymna_, as it's often referred to, was colored slate blue, with black buttons; on his shoulders were, well, a pair of shoulder boards. They were primarily gold, and bordered in red, with another red stripe running down each one, and each one bore four stars.

**(AN: **wikipedia/commons/0/05/RAF_A_F2Capt_since_ ).

Such a pattern was the insignia of a captain.

Running under the shoulder boards were a pair of black leather suspenders that ran all the way to a black leather belt, which also housed a knife, still in its scabbard. The belt was crowned by a buckle, formerly silver - shiny belt buckles, as it turns out, are quite the dead giveaway to your position, and a savory target for snipers - now drenched in a matching matte black. The buckle bore the emblem of the Common Army: An old-fashioned grenade being lit, placed in front of a pair of swords.

(**AN: **wikipedia/commons/a/ac/Emblem_of_the_Russian_Ground_ ).

Under the table, he wore a pair of military-issue breeches, often called "flying-goose pants" by his Eukadian subordinates, for how 'ridiculous' (in _their_ mind) the flaring at the thighs looked. The breeches, like the _gymna_, were slate blue, with the only notable detail about them being a solid, thick crimson stripe running down the legs, disappearing into the black jackboots he stuffed the breeches into, the latter managing to emit a threatening aura on their own.

(**AN: **Imagine the officer on the right of: mukofromtheukraine/art/37th-Independent-Special-Purpose-Regiment-783992108, but swap the beret for a blue cap, and switch out the colors).

Actually...he wan't the _only _one in the room...

The officer grunted in exasperation, both from the incessant heat and the aide-de-camp behind him. The poor kid got drawn into the war by lying about his age to the recruitment officers (to be fair, he was _quite _large for a 15-year-old), all for the grand objective of earning the 'glory' and 'honor' of defeating the fascist hordes of Edinburgh and Valois. Once the instructors realized that they were taking in a kid three years below the age of conscription, they immediately requested that he be sent back to his family.

Problem was, he didn't really _have _one...not anymore, anyways...

So, after a bureaucratic clusterfuck that would've been _hilarious _if not for the cause, he was eventually assigned to be this (un)fortunate captain's personal assistant. Yes, aide-de-camps are supposed to be assigned to officers of a higher rank, but the paper-pushers of the army bureaucracy were eager to get this boy off of their hands.

Truth be told, he wasn't bad _at his job_; after all, it wasn't difficult to simply run by messages and wait on his superior. But _dear __**lord**_, can he _not. Take_. _A hint. _Thinking about it, the officer could wager that a _third _of everything he _ever _said was:

"Yes, Sir!"

"Very good, Sir!"

"Understood, Sir!"

"Sorry, Sir!"

He didn't _hate _the kid; he knew the poor boy was _terrified _of displeasing a high-ranking member of the SS. But if he had a Thaler for every time he grit his teeth in frustration of the little git's _pathetic, cowardly _mannerisms...well, he'd have enough to secure a great fortune; what else did you expect?

"Kowalski..."

The boy stiffened like a rod. The officer ground ground out his surname like a coffee machine would a bowl of coffee beans.

"Y-Yes, Sir!" He took _extra _care to make is salute as crisp and quick as possible.

The officer looked up from the map to reveal his face. His smooth features indicated that he was a little north of twenty. His hair, near black in color, naturally swayed slightly to his right.

And his eyes, a murky, merciless grey, were burning a hole straight through Kowalski's head.

In a distant, far-off universe, this man would've been given the name Claude Wallace.

* * *

_Viktor "Vikki" von Ritterwald_

_Captain, Age, 22. The latest descendant of a staunchly loyalist noble family. Many of his subordinates claim that he is the embodiment of the stereotypical modern noble: Strongly meritocratic, fiercely nationalistic, and disturbingly quiet, with a stiff upper lip to boot. On the latter, many claim that he shows a startling indifference to many situations, giving off a deeply cynical, deeply Hobbesian attitude when carrying out anti-terrorist activities. Our reports indicate that he tends to explode into intense fury when provoked, without much in the way of warning whoever is annoying him. Has an older brother in the 102nd Tank Regiment. Seems to share a close personal history with his second-in-command._

* * *

"...I'm in the middle of planning here..." Viktor's voice, though it was above a whisper, was still gravelly, betraying not a hint to its pitch.

"Very good, Sir!"

"...Just...five minutes...to myself...please..."

"Understood, Si-"

"Just..." He held up his left index finger in Kowalski's direction. "...Leave..."

"Sorry, Sir!" Kowalski immediately dropped his salute as soon as Vikki turned back to the map, and began speed-walking out of the room. The teenager just barely left his line of sight when...

*bump* "Oh! Sorry, Ma'am!"

"Kid, just go to wherever you're going, alright?"

"Y-Yes, Ma'am!"

He tilted his head up slightly. He recognized that voice...

What was she doing all the way out _here_?

He turned back to his map.

...

_Clop..._

_Clop..._

_Clop..._

_Clop..._

_Clop..._

_Clop..._

His ears picked up the distinct groan of aged wood being put under stress.

He looked up.

Sure enough, leaning on the doorframe, was a young woman, his second-in-command, wearing the standard-issue combat uniform of the Common Army: A dark tan _gymna_, complete with beige buttons, shoulder boards and suspenders (though, he noted, she carried an F1 grenade on the top of each strap), ending with a brown leather belt that was snugly wound around her hips. Below that was a pair of matching breeches (since she was above the rank of Lieutenant, she was assigned breeches instead of standard-issue fatigue pants), notably devoid of _any _decorations, also stuffed into a pair of black jackboots.

(**AN**: Imagine the soldier on the left of: mukofromtheukraine/art/37th-Independent-Special-Purpose-Regiment-783992108, but remove the beret and make him female).

Looking upwards, Viktor found her face.

Her porcelain skin betrayed her age, again, somewhere above twenty. Her hair, pitch black, was tied back into a waist-length ponytail (**AN**: Much in the vein of Imca); in fact, she wasn't wearing the standard helmet, the SSh-36, which...he wasn't _too _surprised by; in this kind of weather, the last thing you'd want was some metal dome trapping the heat in your head.

Scanning the room (or, more accurately, him) were a pair of half-lidded eyes, _also _a deep grey.

In that same distant, far-off universe, this woman would've been named Leena Schulen.

* * *

_Erika "Eri" Ivanovna Volkova _

_Senior Lieutenant, Age 22. A fiery, short-tempered ethnic Eukadian who was adopted by a Darcsen veteran after being disowned by her blood family. Respected and feared in equal regard by the soldiers under her command (though, it often dips in favor of the latter). Unfounded rumors accuse her of being the daughter of an infamous mafia boss in St. Petersburg, though she loudly (and violently) denounces those who spread them. Seems to share a close personal history with her superior._

* * *

"...Eri." His tone was a mixture of curiosity, mild surprise, and an emotion that could be best described as 'It's good to you, even if there's no reason why you should be missing in the first place'.

"Vikki." Her's, however, was _laced _with...what _is_ that?...

...A_nxiety?_..._Her?_

He narrowed his eyes; he had the distinct feeling that he wasn't going to find the next five minutes of his life pleasant.

"...Didn't expect to find you here."

Erika's eyes closed, then opened, this time, _not _half-lidded.

"You...got a message..."

"From who?"

"..."

"Eri?"

"...The...Ministry..."

"Which one?"

"You know..._that one_."

A faint, ugly growl bubbled up past the man's larynx, prompting him to lean forward on the table and dip his eyebrows to a _deeply_ annoyed stance. He raised his voice.

"If this is supposed to be some kind of joke, then get to the fucking punchline, already. Now, in _this_-" he gestured towards the open windows, "-weather? I'd appreciate it if you just cut the crap at its foundation and just told me wh-"

"The MIA."

"at-...Sorry?"

She exhaled from her nose; the telltale sign she didn't like what she going to say. Not one bit.

"The message. It's from the Ministry of Internal Affairs."

"..." It was Viktor's turn to be silent.

_The Ministry of Internal Affairs_. The folks who police the police, which included State-Sec. The SS, the secret _police_. Their members served with such zeal, with such ideological fanaticism to the Union and its ideals, that even the cold-hearted bastards of the State-Sec can't help but break into a cold sweat when an official of the Ministry arrives on the scene.

"...Wh-what for?" Even the stoic Viktor von Ritterwald couldn't help but shrink at the chilling reputation the Ministry had on the offices it held jurisdiction over; thanks to its ceaseless vigilance and devotion to bureaucratic purity (read: horrifying willingness/eagerness to gut entire _chunks_ of the government for even the _slightest _suspicion of disloyalty), the Directorate, the executive council that governed the largest nation on Earth, could be assured that every last employee of the state was fiercely loyal to them and the ideals that their Union promoted: Equality, Diversity, Brotherhood, among others.

Erika pulled out an opened envelope from her coat pocket. Normally, Viktor would've lightly chided her for going through messages meant for him without his permission, but given the circumstances, he just didn't care. Unfazed by his distress (a canary in the coal mine if there ever was one), she continued.

"They...erm...I think it's best if I read it you."

She pulled a letter out the envelope; crisp and clean, the letter embodied the Ministry:

Bright.

Pristine.

Appearance-wise, so stereotypical of a government agency, you wouldn't be blamed for thinking it was some sort of parody.

and to those who knew what it meant, of what it stood for...

Utterly terrifying.

After quickly clearing her throat, she began.

"Addressed to His High Birth, Viktor Rudolf Maria Shultz of House Ritterwald..."

The officer in question remained silent. Normally, he would've chuckled at the ridiculous formalities that the government _insisted _they refer him by, but...these were _certainly _no normal circumstances...

"We send you this message to inform you that, in light of recent reports of harsh conduct towards the local civilian populace on the part of many officers of the All-Union Commission for Extraordinary Public and State Security (including you), the Minister of Internal Affairs has ordered that MIA Order #17092 be put into effect. In short, within four days of this message's creation, on July 20th, 1944, an inspector of the recently-formed and temporary Committee for the Military Effectiveness and Ideological Purity of the All-Union Commission for Extraordinary Public and State Security will visit and inspect the units under your command to ensure that you are not only committed to the defense and security of our nation, its people, and its government, but that you performing your task with the zeal, commitment, and competence required of such a high position. We send you this message in advance of our inspector's arrival in order to give you the time necessary to prepare.

"Do not be alarmed by this event; judging by your record of exemplary and dedicated service to our glorious Union and its ideals, we have full faith that you will pass this inspection with flying colors. But regardless, we must inform you that failure in this inspection will carry severe consequences, which may include termination."

She finished with the standard, boilerplate ending of every letter that left the confines of the Ministry's bleak offices:

"Glory to the Motherland."

For a good few minutes, the war room remained silent. Even the insects outside seemed to have somehow understood the gravity of the situation, as the forest outside muted its usual chatter and chimes.

Viktor knew the _true _purpose of this 'inspection':

It was a test. The Ministry was getting wary of him, they were starting to grow equal amounts worried and suspicious of his willingness to commit atrocities against the conquered populace in retaliation for relatively minor resistance. They wanted to see if he was...too dangerous...to entrust with the occupation of Western Europa, to see if he would need to be shuffled out for a more benevolent...less bloodthirsty...commander...

"...Eri...as my childhood friend and close confidant...please...just...fuck off."

The woman standing opposite him quietly nodded, turned around, and left, presumably for the main camp.

As the only person left in the room, Viktor yanked his cap off his head and ran a hand through his hair. His eyes turned from the map to the slightly ruffed blue mess in his hand.

The cap was standard-issue for _all _agents of State-Sec: a slightly puffed-out cornflower-blue top with red piping, sitting above a red band, finished with a black square visor.

(**AN: **MVDNew/NKVD_sq_ )

In the center of the band, sitting just above the visor, was the minuscule cap badge of the SS, and the symbol that adorned the canton of the Union's flag: An eight-pointed star, with the four diagonal points colored a dark blue, and the four remaining points and the center of the star colored a bright white. He vaguely remembers the meaning behind this symbol, explained to him so many years ago by his private tutor:

_The Star represents the fact that our great Union pushes in all directions, that its strength and prosperity comes from everyone, from every direction. The blue represents the sea, peace, and unity; the white represents purity and honor..._

His eyes were glazed over with a new emotion. It's hard to say which one, really.

He adjusts the cap back on his head.

One emotion now stands out, in front of the others. What is it called?

"Fine then..."

It's on the tip of my tongue...

"You want a fight?"

Ah. Here it is:

"I'm gonna give you a goddamn _bloodbath_."

_Defiance._

* * *

**And so it begins! Our journey through the dying embers of the Second Great War!**

**What do you think of all the ANs I posted throughout the story? I slipped them in to give you a better idea, a better image of what these items and uniforms looked like. Do you like this idea? Hate it? Let me know, and don't sugarcoat the reviews! I'm mentally prepared for a vicious tongue lashing of this terribly written chapter. But hey, it's fanfiction...**

**Don't worry if you're a little lost on the world and setting, I'm trying to begin this whole thing ****_In Media Res_****. Might not be successful on that front...**

**But regardless, I'll have a general timeline of Europa's history in this AU along with some entries from "The Encyclopedia Gaia" in the vein of the Templin Institute out...later...**

**That's all for now!**

**Do Svidanya!  
**

* * *

**Addendum: Post-post decision**

**...After taking some time to really read over this chapter and think about it...**

**...I'm...not at all pleased with this chapter...**

**In many places, the writing's pretty clunky with its lengthy, rookie-esque descriptions of clothing, and the characters themselves seem...OOC.**

**I used to be deeply annoyed at writers who take _so long _to just update their stories...until now. I realized that they're taking so long because they value quality over quantity, and I just did the opposite: In trying to keep you guys interested, I'm just spamming out poorly written chapters.**

**Which is why I'm making the decision to re-write this chapter. Later on, when I have my new (and (hopefully) ****_definitely __improved_) chapter up, I'll delete this one and post the new one (obviously).**

**Regardless, I'm terribly sorry about this. Especially you, Tamborine Man, my first ever reviewer.**

**Do Svidanya...**


	3. UPDATE: HIATUS

**...Hello...**

**...How are you...**

**...**

**Yeah, okay, I'm not gonna beat around the bush anymore.**

**After some more consideration, I've decided to put this story on hold for a while...**

**I'm doing this because I've rushed it out to the general public without fully finishing three things.**

**Firstly, I've rushed this story out before I completed the world-building and backstory; the magic system and history still has a _lot _of holes to fill, and the current geopolitical situation by the start of this story is _still _undergoing plenty of tweaks and changes; in fact, I haven't even finished building the Not!Nazi Germany and Fascist Hungary in this world yet (Valois and Edinburgh, respectively).**

**Secondly, I haven't finished the characters yet; they're _still _undergoing various rewrites and changes to their backstories, abilities, and even their _genders_. As of now, I'm even entertaining the idea of adding in a Raz and Riley ****expy, though I'm still on the fence. So far, I've only put together the bare-bones outline of _one _antagonist.**

**Thirdly, _I haven't even finished the story yet_. Outside of the first chapter (which I'm _still_ juggling plenty of ideas for), I've only put together a general idea of how I want the story to begin and end. That's it.**

**After realizing all of this, and deciding that I shouldn't keep your hopes up for a new chapter anytime soon, I've decided to put this story on hiatus, and spend my time, energy, and interest in finishing the world, characters, and story.**

**I am so sorry to everyone who had an interest in this idea of a Valkyria Chronicles without Ragnite. But, as Riley said, "It's a learning experience". Honestly, this story just kinda jumped out of a burst of passion, without a lick of a plan as to how it's going to play out. Now I understand that writing stories, _good _stories, worthy of favorites and follows, require a special amount of care and planning that goes _well _beyond spending a few days cobbling together a first chapter.**

**Again, I'm so sorry about this, but I need some time to myself to finish building this world I've imagined.**

**On an ever-so-slightly lighter, note, I'm planning on putting out parts of the story and world on my deviant art account, here:**

_** kaiserguy14**_

**Here, you'll (eventually) find some tidbits and snippets of the world of My Parents' War; I'm planning on the first bits of information being a timeline of the world and a world map that shows the geopolitical situation as of the beginning of the story, in mid-1944. The folder for this universe has already been made, but it's empty, (hopefully) for now.**

**Do Svidanya...**


End file.
